


death is not the opposite of life

by attackofthezee (noxlunate)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky as Death, Character Death, Falling In Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Road Trips, Unspecified Terminal Illness, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxlunate/pseuds/attackofthezee
Summary: Death comes for Steve Rogers when he’s 19 years old. He’s gasping on the pavement, his lungs unable to take in air, his body giving up after not quite two decades of trying to survive, when Death wraps cold metal fingers around Steve’s wrist and says “Come, it’s time.”Steve, surprising no one, except maybe Death himself gasps out a breathless, “Fuck off.”In which Bucky is Death, Steve is dying, they keep meeting, and there's a road trip involved.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 42
Kudos: 328





	death is not the opposite of life

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to preface this with the fact that there IS a happy ending. Mileage may vary, of course, but in my opinion, at least, the ending is a happy one! 
> 
> For more information about the "character death, kind of" tags please see the end notes! 
> 
> ANYWAY, thank you for reading this fic and I hope you enjoy!

Death comes for Steve Rogers when he’s 19 years old. He’s gasping on the pavement, his lungs unable to take in air, his body giving up after not quite two decades of trying to survive, when Death wraps cold metal fingers around Steve’s wrist and says “Come, it’s time.” 

Steve, surprising no one, except maybe Death himself gasps out a breathless, “Fuck  _ off _ .” 

Death laughs, a cracked and dry sound as he crouches down, squatting in the middle of the sidewalk to get a proper look at the dying kid who’s soul he’s supposed to take. “It’d be easier, you know? No more pain, no more suffering. All you gotta do is come with me.” He could force it, could take Steven Grant Rogers’ soul with him no matter what the kid wants, but it’s always so much simpler when people come willingly. 

“I’m. Not. Going,” Steve says, and there’s something fierce about it, something that makes Death take a step back. 

It’s enough. Enough of a delay that the paramedics arrive and get to work. A few seconds of stubborness is just enough that today, Steve Rogers lives. 

“I’ll see you again, kid,” Death says with a mockery of a salute as he fades back into the shadows. 

Steve Rogers lifts his middle finger at Death in response. 

The next time Death meets Steve Rogers he’s not there for him. Sarah Rogers is not old, but she’s frail from a long battle with cancer and so,  _ so very tired.  _ Death can feel it. 

“Hello,” Sarah Rogers says, “I knew you’d be here soon.” Some people are surprised when Death shows up. They don’t yet realize what they’re seeing, or they refuse to. But not Sarah Rogers. Of course she’s not. Death knows, somehow, that if he got the chance he’d like her. 

Steve Rogers looks up at the sound of his mother’s voice, his eyes falling on Death. “ _ You.”  _

“I told you I’d see you again,” Death says, taking a seat next to Sarah’s hospital bed. There’s not ...regret there, not necessarily, at what he has to do, what he was created to do, but there’s always something that feels a little like loss when he takes someone with a spirit as bright as Sarah’s. 

“I didn’t think it’d be so soon,” There’s something round in Steve’s voice, like he’s trying not to choke on a sob, long fingers clutching at his mother’s own. 

Death hates it the most when the family can see him. Their loss is always so much harder to bear than that of the person actually dying. It’s weighted differently, heavier, and it tastes like fire on ash in the back of his throat when he sees it. 

“I’m sorry,” He says, and even if there was something he could do, even if Death had any control over this, he can’t, because Sarah Rogers is already dead. 

Death isn’t sure what brings him back to Steve Rogers when he’s not actually dying. He just… finds himself there. Standing next to Steve, while he’s perched on a stool in front of an easel, dragging a paintbrush over canvas in a way that to Death, appears entirely haphazard. 

“I’m not dying today, asshole,” Steve says. 

“You never know,” Death says, “There could be a freak accident. You could trip down the stairs. Anything could happen.” 

Steve gives him a flat look before turning back to his painting. 

“Okay, that’s not why I’m here,” Death admits with a shrug. The gesture feels strange. Human, even. 

“Why are you here, then?” Steve asks. 

“I-” Death starts and then stops, “I don’t know actually.” 

“Shouldn’t the Grim Reaper know, like, everything?” Steve asks, setting his paintbrush down in a mason jar filled with dirty water and turning to face Death properly, “Including, but not limited to, why he’s showing up to chat with some random dude?” 

“Of course I don’t know everything. I’m not a  _ god.”  _

“Huh,” Steve says, and then, “Pull down the hood.” 

“What?” 

“If we’re gonna just like, I don’t know, chat or whatever, you gotta take the creepy hood off. Unless you’re actually a skeleton under there?” 

Death, feeling terribly confused, for the first time he can remember (though to be fair, he doesn’t remember a lot) since he became, well,  _ this,  _ pulls his hood down. 

“Huh. You’re like, a real person,” Steve says, stepping closer, peering at him with a steady gaze that leaves Death rooted in place. “Do you have a name? I mean, calling you ‘that asshole who tried to get me to go to the afterlife that one time’ is a little inconvenient, and ‘Death’ feels a little impersonal.” 

A  _ name.  _ Death thinks he must have, before he became  _ this.  _ He doesn’t remember much of it, but he  _ was _ a person once, before the last Death gave him the option to take his spot. 

“I- I don’t remember,” He says, and then, “I have to go.” 

The next time he sees Steve, Steve is in a car, driving through a long stretch of desert, the windows down as he sings to something on the radio. 

He’s a terrible singer, frankly, but there’s something magnetic about it. 

“I remembered,” He says and Steve swears, swerving across the road before he rights the vehicle again. 

“Jesus fucking christ, you fucking  _ scared  _ me. You  _ asshole,”  _ Steve says, pressing a hand to his chest, the other gripping the steering wheel tight. 

“Sorry,” Death says, “I remembered though. My name was James. My friends though, they called me Bucky.” 

“Was?” Steve asks, glancing away from the road for a brief moment to look at Death. 

“I gave that up when I became Death.” 

“Why? Are you like, contractually obligated to go by  _ Death _ ?”

“I-” Death starts and then stops, an exasperated sigh escaping him before he even realizes he’s going to do it, “No. Not really. There’s not really a contract involved in this.” 

“Good. I’m gonna call you Bucky then. It’s just so much less weird than the alternative.” 

“Oh,” Death-  _ Bucky  _ says, something in him wanting to cling to the name now that he’s found it again, now that someone is using it for him, “Where are you going?” 

They’re certainly not in New York City anymore, where Steve has been the last few times Bucky has seen him, and the car, when he glances toward the back seat, is stuffed full, duffel bags piled on top of boxes, a potted plant on the back dash, like a whole life is packed into this one car. 

“West,” Steve says, “I decided I was sick of the cold, and if my doctors are to be believed you’re not that far off from getting to do whatever it is you do with people. I wanna see the Grand Canyon before I go. And the ocean. Maybe I’ll even go stand inside one of those giant trees that have a tunnel through them.” 

Bucky’s surprised at how much he doesn’t want to lead Steve to the other side anytime soon. Steve seems full of hard edges and fight and Bucky realizes, suddenly, that he’s been expecting that fight to carry Steve along into old age since he flipped him off on the pavement years ago. 

It doesn’t feel fair somehow. Though it’s not like it’s up to Bucky whether a death is fair. He’s meant to do his job, not to question any of it. 

“I think I wanted to go to the Grand Canyon once,” Bucky says, leaning his head back against the headrest, watching as Steve taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the now quiet music spilling from the stereo. 

“Did you ever get to?” Steve asks. 

“I don’t think so. I think I was deployed before I got the chance,” The words come out without much thought, like they know his past better than Bucky himself does. The moment they’re there though, spoken aloud into the universe, they feel true. 

There’s a fog that hangs over his Before, but now this is certain: Bucky was a soldier. Bucky went to war. And Bucky died there. 

“I wanted to be in the Army,” Steve says, “When I was a kid. It’s what my dad did, and his dad before him, so I thought, you know, maybe I should too. And when you’re a kid you think it’s gonna be about helping people. But I couldn’t enlist, cause of,” he gestures at himself, “you know,  _ everything.  _ I was pretty pissed about it for a while, but I got older and realized that I definitely dodged a bullet with that. The military kind of sucks.” 

Bucky laughs, the sound rough like it’s been pulled out of him, and he shakes his head at Steve. “You’re right. It’s a shitshow.” Even if he didn’t know in his bones that he knows from experience, he’d know it from the amount of people he’s had to take to the other side because of it. 

“You should come,” Steve says suddenly. 

“What?” 

“To the Grand Canyon. You should see it too.” 

“I- I’d like that, actually,” Bucky says, and then, “I have to go now though. I’ll see you there.” 

“I thought you might miss it,” Steve says when Bucky appears beside him. 

Steve’s sat on the edge of a rock, his legs crossed together, and a sketchpad in his lap. The sun is setting, the sky streaked with pink and orange, and Steve is lit up, glowing like something miraculous in the fading light. 

Bucky thinks he could watch him like this for a very long time if he was allowed. 

_ ‘Oh’  _ Bucky thinks, and  _ ‘Oh no,’  _ and  _ ‘Oh. Oh no. This is very bad.’  _

“I’m the literal personification of death, Steve, I have ways of not missing things,” Is what Bucky says instead of voicing the sudden, internal panic that feels like it should not be characteristic of the  _ literal personification of death _ . 

The previous Death did  _ not  _ warn Bucky that this sort of feeling was possible. 

“Oh, good. I was wondering how you manage to show up to do pretty much nothing with me while also being, you know,  _ Death.”  _

“Time doesn’t work the same for me. I’d never be able to do my job if it did,” Bucky says with a shrug, and then, he leans over, trying to see Steve’s sketch, “What are you-  _ Oh.”  _

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Steve says, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s. 

Bucky had assumed that Steve was sketching the view in front of them. The breadth of the Grand Canyon in all its glory. But what’s on the page, instead, is Bucky. His sharp jaw, the jut of his nose, his hair braided to the side, and his hood down and bunched around his neck. 

“Too late,” Bucky says, trying to make it a joke, instead of focusing on the way something under his chest is being filled like a balloon. “You’re watching my ego grow right before your very eyes.” 

Steve laughs, a short sound, that fades into a silence that hangs between them as they watch the sun set. 

“Do you always do this?” Steve asks finally, interrupting the silence. 

“Do what?” 

“Do you make friends with everyone that’s slowly dying?” 

“No, you’re the first.” 

“Good,” Steve says, leaning his head against Bucky’s shoulder and sounding strangely pleased. 

Bucky, carefully, slides metal fingers through Steve’s hair, watching Steve watch the world grow dark around them and the stars light up the sky. 

“This whole showing up without any warning thing is really getting old,” Steve says the next time Bucky turns up in the passenger seat of his car. “I really don’t wanna have a heart attack and go before it’s my time.” 

“I don’t really think there’s a metaphysical version of knocking that I can do to announce myself,” Bucky says, reaching forward to fiddle with the knobs on the radio and earning a light slap to his hand from Steve for his efforts. “Where are we going on your tour of America today?” 

“Oh so now it’s a  _ we  _ on this trip? I didn’t realize Death gets to take vacations.” 

“I told you, time works differently for me. Also, it’s not like I have a big boss giving me  _ rules.  _ At least not that I know of. I can do what I want.” 

“Except for make it so that I don’t die?” Steve asks, his gaze cutting towards Bucky for a moment before turning back to the road. There’s something in the look. Hope, maybe? Or judgement? 

Or maybe Bucky’s just reading something into it that isn’t there. He’s felt so much more human around Steve than he has in a long time. Maybe he’s just doing what humans do and making assumptions. 

“That’s not- It doesn’t work like that,” Bucky says, tugging a hand through his hair, “I don’t pick who lives and dies, Steve. I don’t have that power.” 

Steve is quiet for a long moment in response, staring straight ahead at the road. Finally, he heaves a great big gusty sigh and speaks, “Is it in your power at least to get a wardrobe change? I’m not sure billowing black robes are appropriate for the beach.” 

Bucky blinks down at himself, considering it for the first time in, well,  _ ever  _ actually. He’s never really thought about his clothing choice as Death. The man who had been this before him, who made him what he is now, wore the same sort of getup, and so Bucky has looked like this ever since. 

He tries to think, for a moment, back to what he wore in the  _ Before.  _ Before he was Death, when he was just Bucky.

It’s hard, somehow, to cast his mind back to that, but there’s a moment where what he’s wearing changes and suddenly he’s looking down at himself in a blue coat and trousers, gaiters, and boots. It makes everything feel like it’s going to go sideways, like he’s falling-  _ screaming- dying- _ and it all blurs and then he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Steve’s car in jeans and a soft blue henley instead. 

He flexes the fingers of both hands (one flesh and one metal because no matter how hard he thinks about that one, it won’t change), trying to settle into his new look. 

“How’s it look?” He asks after an incredibly long moment where Steve just sort of stares at him, mouth open. “Also, watch the road,  _ jesus christ _ . It’s not your time to die yet.” 

“Sorry, I just didn’t realize you’d be able to just _do_ _that,”_ Steve says, turning his attention back to the road as he pulls them into a parking lot. “And it looks- It looks real good, actually. You might find that people react a little better to the whole you leading them to the other side _thing_ when you look that hot and don’t look like, you know, a painting of the actual grim reaper.” 

“ _ Hot?”  _ Bucky asks, feeling his eyebrows raise and watching as the tips of Steve’s ears go pink. 

“Shut up. You  _ must  _ know that you’re objectively a very attractive person. Personification of death. Transporter of spirits to the afterlife. Whatever you are.” Steve rolls his eyes, though Bucky isn’t quite sure if it’s at his own self, or at Bucky for the question. Then, he parks, swings his door open and gets out, leaning in to say, “C’mon,” before he turns and heads in the direction of the beach. 

Bucky, feeling strangely helpless to really do anything else, follows. 

“So, the beach,” Bucky says after a few moments of walking along it, Steve weaving them closer and closer to the water as they walk. 

“Yep. I’ve never seen the Pacific Ocean, and I dunno, I thought it’d be nice.” 

“Is it?” Bucky asks, watching Steve as he turns around to face Bucky, walking backwards. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, his expression blooming into a smile. The day is overcast, with a bite in the air this close to the water, but Steve’s smile seems to light it up. “I’m glad you came with me.” 

“Yeah, pal” Bucky says, watching as Steve bends down to roll his pant legs up and pull off his shoes and socks, abandoning them to walk further out, until the waves lap at his ankles every time they roll in and Steve hops from foot to foot until he adjusts to the sudden cold. “Me too.” 

Later, when Steve has gotten tired of flouncing around in the waves like a 5 year old, he makes Bucky run back to the car to get the cooler he’d apparently gotten, dramatically insisting that  _ “I’m dying, Bucky,”  _ to get Bucky to obey his whims. 

Bucky’s starting to think that maybe he would obey them even without there being a good reason. 

“I brought you a sandwich,” Steve says, digging around in the cooler and pulling out two paper wrapped sub sandwiches, “I didn’t know what you like, so I got you what  _ I  _ like because I figured if you didn’t show or if you can’t like, eat actual food or something because of the whole, you know,  _ Death thing _ , then at least I can.  _ Can  _ you eat?” 

“We’re about to find out,” Bucky says, snatching one of the sandwiches from Steve and ripping back the paper before taking a bite. “It’s  _ good.”  _

It _is._ It’s just meat and vegetables on soft bread, but Bucky hasn’t exactly considered things like food since he became this. He’s dead. More than dead, he’s _Death._ And Death doesn’t exactly need sustenance to keep doing it’s job. There’s something about the simple pleasure of food that’s _good_ though. That makes him feel _good._ The same way that spending time with Steve, sitting on a beach, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, makes him feel good. 

“Good,” Steve says, a pleased smile spreading across his face before he covers it by biting into his sandwich. 

They settle into quiet that way, eating sandwiches on a blanket on the beach, the only interruption the occasional beachcomber or someone walking their dog.

When they’ve finished, Steve opens his mouth, snaps it shut and then leans forward and kisses Bucky. 

Bucky goes still, and it’s enough that Steve jerks back, shame faced and apologetic. 

“Shit. Shit I’m so sorry. I don’t even know if you like me. If you like  _ people _ ! You’re  _ Death.  _ Hell, sometimes I’m not even sure that you’re not just some crazy hallucination I’ve come up with so I feel less alone in all this bullshit. God, that would be so embarassing.” 

“I’m real,” Bucky says, touching his fingers to his mouth and kicking himself for not reacting like a normal human being and just kissing Steve back. 

“Really? Because I don’t have a lot of proof for that, pal. You just show up! Maybe I’m just making you all up. Maybe I’m dying  _ and  _ going insane. I’m an artist, my imagination is  _ great,  _ I could totally just be dreaming this all up. Maybe this is all just some-” 

Bucky pulls Steve forward and kisses him soundly, Steve’s rant trailing off into a ‘MMPH!’ noise before he presses closer, a hand in Bucky’s hair as he kisses him back,  _ hard _ . 

“Did that feel real enough for you?” Bucky asks, when he’s pulled back and left Steve looking flushed and rumpled around the edges. 

“I don’t know, I have a  _ really  _ good imagination,” Steve teases, shoving Bucky backwards until he’s sprawled atop the blanket in the sand.

“We should try again, maybe,” Bucky says, smiling up at Steve as he leans over him, all bright eyed and beautiful, Bucky pinned beneath him with nothing but his gaze. 

“I think you’re right. We should. Just to be totally sure.” And then Steve is leaning down and kissing Bucky once again. 

“Oh good, the dressing like a human being thing stuck,” Steve says the next time Bucky shows up, reaching out to fiddle with Bucky’s jacket then pulling him in closer for a quick kiss. “A leather jacket, hmm? What a tough guy.” 

“You can’t make fun of me, I’m  _ Death,”  _ Bucky complains even as he leans down to kiss Steve again and again. “What are we doing today?” 

“We’re sailing,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand and leading him down the pier. 

“Do you know how to sail?” 

“Absolutely not. Which is why I bought us tickets for what is apparently a ‘ninety minute sailboat excursion, full of fun, beautiful views, and exciting marine life sightings.’” Steve says, reading off the front of a ticket. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I get terribly seasick.” 

_ “Liar,”  _ Steve insists, handing over their tickets and joining about a dozen other people on a sailboat. 

There’s a man telling everybody on the boat a bunch of things that are probably very important, but Bucky is paying absolutely zero attention to him. 

He’s watching Steve, instead- Steve who looks pale and wane, practically swimming in a sweatshirt with **_MONTEREY BAY AQUARIUM_** printed across the front- Steve who turns towards Bucky when he notices him watching and smiles bright enough it leaves Bucky’s skin feeling too small for his body- Steve who has quickly become _everything_ somehow, even if Bucky can’t explain it. Can’t explain how he went from _Death,_ from knowing nothing of himself except for his purpose, to being _Bucky_ who is absolutely _hopeless_ about Steve _._

“You’re staring,” Steve says. 

“Does it bother you?” Bucky asks, because it’s not like he can exactly  _ deny _ that he’s been staring. 

“Nah. It’s as flattering as it is creepy.” 

“Oh good, because I didn’t have any intention of stopping,” Bucky says and watches as Steve’s ears turn pink at Bucky’s words. 

He likes it, making Steve flustered and flushed around the edges. It feels like something he could keep doing for ages without getting tired of it, but due to circumstances needs to do as much as possible in the short amount of time he has to do so. 

“You’re so weird,” Steve says, dramatically, like it pains him. 

“I have no idea what else you were expecting out of doing whatever it is we’re doing with someone who’s  _ literally  _ Death.”

“I don’t know,  _ maybe _ I was expecting something a little more gothic romance novel-esque and a little less sassy lead of a paranormal YA novel-esque.” 

“I’m incredibly sorry to disappoint,” Bucky says and absolutely does not mean it. 

“I  _ guess  _ that I can forgive you,” Steve says and then, “Now come on, let’s enjoy our nautical excursion.”

Steve takes Bucky’s hand and drags him to the railing of the boat to look out over the water as they pass through it and Bucky, despite himself, fights the urge to grab hold of the back of his sweater so that nothing tragic, like Steve tipping over the side of the boat and drowning happens. 

Okay, honestly, Bucky doesn’t fight the urge very hard and gives in within approximately 3 seconds and fists a hand in the back of Steve’s sweatshirt, ignoring the judgemental eyebrows that Steve aims his way before they smooth out into something a little more fond. 

Maybe, possibly, Bucky isn’t trying to anchor Steve to the boat so much as attempting to anchor his own self, the risk of floating away every time Steve looks at him is just a little too strong. It feels, suddenly, like a very distinct possibility. 

“Do you have any sort of plan for all of this?” Bucky asks later, sat outside on the patio of a restaurant on the pier, watching Steve demolish a bread bowl full of clam chowder. 

“Nope.” 

“You’re just going where the wind blows you?” 

“Essentially, yeah. If I want to go to, I don’t know, Wyoming next, I will. Or Oregon. Maybe I’ll even go back to Texas and get in a fight with a redneck. The world is my oyster, Buck.” 

“Oh god, please don’t go fight a redneck. That’d be a terrible way for you to die.” 

“I don’t know, I think it’d make an entertaining headstone. ‘Here Lies Steve. He Died Doing What He Loved Most: Fighting Idiots.’” 

“ _ You’re  _ an idiot,” Bucky says, far too fond. 

“You can’t be mean to me. I’m  _ dying,”  _ Steve says, his tone all fake scandalized. 

“I’m  _ Death.  _ I can do whatever I want,” Bucky says, for what seems like the millionth time since he’s met Steve. 

Steve, the obnoxious shit that he is, rolls his eyes at Bucky and shoves a piece of bread into Bucky’s face. 

Later, after they’ve eaten and walked along the pier, stopping periodically to watch the sea lions, Steve starts to visibly droop on the way back to the car. 

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, closing the distance between them, wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist. 

“I’m just tired, it’s fine.” Steve says, waving it away even as he leans his weight against Bucky a little more. 

“It’s not. Do you have a hotel? I’ll take you back to your hotel,” Bucky says, swinging the passenger door open and pushing Steve gently down into the seat, “Get in the car Steve.” 

“Do you even know how to drive?” 

“Don’t know, let’s find out,” Bucky says brightly, walking around the car and getting into the driver’s seat for the first time since he became  _ this.  _

“You definitely don’t have a license. What’ll you do if you get pulled over?”

“I’m  _ Death.”  _

“You  _ really  _ can’t use that as an excuse for everything.” 

Later, once they’ve gotten back to Steve’s hotel and Bucky’s fetched Steve meds from inside one of the bags in the pile of luggage that appears to have been haphazardly left at the bottom of the bed. Later, once Steve is ensconced in the bed, and Bucky’s spread himself out in the spot next to him, they lay facing each other in the dimly lit hotel room.

“Don’t you normally leave by now?” Steve asks. 

“Is that a hint for me to go?” 

“Never,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand and lacing it with his own. 

“I can stay as long as you want me to,” Bucky says, lifting their entwined hands and kissing Steve’s knuckles. 

“Just til I fall asleep. Then you can go do your deathly duties.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, letting Steve shove at him and move him until they’re a tangle of limbs with Steve’s head on Bucky’s chest. 

“You were a person before this, right?” 

“I’m a person now.” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah. I was a person. Just like you. A little taller though.” 

“ _ Rude,”  _ Steve says, pinching Bucky beneath the ribs just hard enough for him to feel it, and then, “What happened?” 

Bucky remembers. He’s remembered so much more since Steve tugged him from the mechanical motonoty of the last however long he’s been living, or not living, like this. More than just how to drive a car, or his name, or how vain he’d been about his hair. 

Things like his family. Like his sister Becca, tackling him into the snow one winter when she got the upper hand in a snowball fight, her cheeks rosy red and her shriek victorious. 

And things like his death. 

“Obviously, I died,” Bucky says, and Steve lifts his head to give him a very clearly annoyed look. “Okay, okay, stop giving me that look, I’ll be serious. I was a soldier-” 

“You died at war?” 

“Not quite. My unit got captured. The people who had us- they were into some real freaky occult shit. I mean, now, after doing this for so long, I know how much is out there that I never knew, but at the time? Not so much.” 

“Wait, what all is out there? Have you been holding out on me, pal? What all is there that goes bump in the night?” 

“No getting sidetracked, there’s still more of the story.” 

“Ugh, fine. But eventually you’re going to tell me what else there is but you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, my unit got captured and they, well, experimented on me I guess? I don’t know, there were a lot of weird rituals and a million tests but then it was all over.” 

“You died?” 

“No, our unit got rescued. Everything went back to normal. Or I guess as normal as it can get when you’re in a war. And then I fell. I thought I was done for, at the bottom of a ravine, bleeding out in the snow. But I wasn’t. Whatever they’d done to me, it kept me alive long enough for them to find me. They gave me this,” Bucky gestures to his arm, “And then they pretty much picked up where they left off. I think- I think they were trying to make me something else. To make me something not human. To turn me into something they could use. But they fucked up.” 

“ _ Bucky,”  _ Steve murmurs, curling his fingers around Bucky’s wrist. 

“I don’t remember dying, not really, but suddenly there was this man in the stupid Death get up with an eyepatch, telling me it was time to go. I think I might have said ‘thank you.’ I don’t know. Everything was just- I was so fucking ready for it to be over, Steve. I couldn’t handle it anymore, and I didn’t- I didn’t want to know what would happen if they succeeded at turning me into whatever they wanted to.” 

“You didn’t cross over though,” Steve says, softly, barely a whisper against Bucky’s chest where his head is pillowed. 

“No. Death, the former Death, he made me an offer. I don’t know why- Maybe he pitied me? Maybe he was just tired and ready to move on? It gets lonely, being the only one. But either way, he told me that I didn’t have to move on just yet. That I could stay. On one condition.” 

“That you become Death yourself.” 

“That I become Death, yeah. I said yes, obviously.”

“And now you’re here.” 

“And now I’m here. I mean, there was some stuff in between that and here, obviously. The former Death stuck around for a little bit to show me at least the bare minimum of what I’m supposed to do and how to do it, and then I spent however long just sort of  _ being  _ Death. I don’t know if it was everything they did to me before I died, or if it just comes with the territory of being this, but I think I just sort of forgot for a while that I was anything other than Death. Of course, you ruined that.” 

“I’d apologize, but it wouldn’t be sincere,” Steve says with a hint of grin and then angles his head to kiss Bucky’s jaw, “I am sorry though. Not about ruining your whole Death persona, but for what you’ve been through. And that you’re going to end up losing me too.” 

Bucky, with the weight of a lump in his throat, doesn’t answer and kisses Steve instead. 

Later, when Steve has fallen asleep and Bucky has gently untangled himself from him, he finds himself in the parking lot outside of the hotel. 

“This isn’t fair,” He says, quietly into the stillness. 

He feels like railing against the universe. 

He feels like drowning in this new grief of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet. 

“It’s not fair that he has to die and I can’t do anything about it. It’s not fair that I’ve spent god-  _ a century- an endless fucking century,  _ leading people- good people- children, and parents, and people who should have  _ longer _ into the afterlife, while people so much worse get to  _ stay.  _ It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I finally find someone and you’re just. You’re going to take him.” 

He’s not sure who he’s even talking to. Whether it’s God, or the universe, or fucking  _ nothing,  _ because nobody told him how this works. No one gave him a fucking instruction manual when he was a fucking idiot, dying in the grasp of some really fucked up scientists, being offered a way out by the old Death and taking it. 

“I don’t want to be alone again,” He says, his voice feeling rough and scraped bare. 

And then, he’s gone, following the pull of the souls he needs to ferry to the other side, so that he can come back to Steve and squeeze every minute he can out of this. 

The next time he sees Steve, they spend the entire day in bed, ensconced in the little house in the mountains that Steve says he rented off of something called AirBnb. 

It’s early fall, and the grounds around the house are covered in leaves- orange and yellow and shades of bright red, but Bucky can imagine it, this little home, surrounded by snow easily, and he thinks that it would be nice to come back then with Steve during the winter. He shoves the thought away before it can turn into more, into a hope or a wish.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Steve says, absently playing with Bucky’s fingers, inspecting the grooves between metal. 

“Sorry I guess I’m just too damned smart, I can’t help it,” Bucky says and Steve snorts and tugs at him, rolling them until he’s on top of Bucky. 

“Mmh, is there anything I can do to distract you from whatever very, very important thoughts you’ve got going on in there?” Steve asks, taking both of Bucky’s hands in his own and sliding them up until they’re above his head in the pillows. 

“This is certainly a start,” Bucky murmurs, taking in every inch of Steve above him. He’s gorgeous, and Bucky  _ wants.  _

Steve leans down and kisses him, slow and easy, before pulling back with one last biting kiss. “So you’re dead, right?” 

“Uh,” Bucky says, his brain struggling to catch up, “Technically?” 

“Does that mean you can’t…” Steve drags his hands over Bucky’s chest and then, down, down,  _ down  _ pointedly. 

“Wait, are you asking if I can still have sex?” 

“Yes. That’s  _ exactly  _ what I’m asking, Buck.” 

“Oh. Okay. Then the answer to that is a very firm yes.” 

“Very firm, huh?” Steve asks, his grin bordering on leering. 

“You’re not funny,” Bucky tells him, very seriously. 

“I’m  _ hilarious _ .” 

“You’re the worst. I hate you immensely.” 

“Liar. You love me.” 

“I do,” It pops out before Bucky can stop it, automatic, as if it’s by rote even if it very much isn’t, but as soon as it’s out of his mouth he knows it’s true. He  _ loves  _ Steve. He loves every stupid, tragic inch of him with every breath that’s in Bucky’s body. 

Steve just looks at him, his mouth open into a little ‘o’, his eyes warm and bright, and murmurs, “You do, don’t you?” 

He doesn’t give Bucky much of a chance to answer before his mouth is on Bucky’s again, kissing him hard, making him feel it. 

Later, when they’ve taken each other apart - Bucky very much proving his answer to Steve’s question,  _ thank you very much- _ and are curled up in the bed, the sun setting outside the large windows and leaving them awash in it’s glow, Bucky feels the softest brush of Steve’s lips against the back of his neck, and something that sounds like “I do too. I really, really do.” 

  
  


It happens when Bucky isn’t expecting it. When he’s gotten complacent. When he’s started expecting that he’ll show up to Steve, wherever he is, and they’ll spend an hour, or six, or an entire day together. When he’s started counting on the next kiss, the next smile, the next laugh. 

Of course that’s how it goes. Bucky is Death. He knows that. He knows better than anyone that death comes when you least expect it to. 

There’s the pull of another soul, ready to be led to the afterlife, and Bucky follows it, a sinking feeling in his gut that he can’t quite place.

Some part of him knows before he even sees Steve. 

“I guess this is what death feels like, huh.” Steve says, staring down at his own body on the floor in what appears to be morbid fascination. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, his voice cracking, and “ _ No.”  _

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Steve says, stepping into Bucky’s space, hands that Bucky is always surprised by the breadth of, curling over Bucky’s biceps, “We knew this was coming. It was always inevitable.” 

“I’d hoped-” Bucky starts and stops, tips his head forward until he can press his forehead to Steve’s. 

“I know. Shhh, I know,” Steve soothes, smoothing his hands up Bucky’s arms, over his shoulders, his thumbs brushing over Bucky’s throat. “How long do we have until you have to, you know, do what you do?” 

“I don’t- I don’t know. I’ve never tried to delay it.” 

“Do you think it’s long enough that you could take me home? I just- I want to see it one last time.” 

“Yeah. Yes.  _ Of course,”  _ Bucky says, because he doesn’t know how long they have, not really, but he’ll bend the whole fucking universe to his will if he has to to give Steve this. 

He takes Steve’s hands between his own, gripping them tightly, and then, in the span of a single breath, they’re somewhere else. 

The sounds of the city hit them all at once, people walking around them, side stepping subconsciously to move around the two as they go about their own lives, making their ways down the sidewalk of a Brooklyn street completely oblivious to the two souls standing there. 

“This is my neighborhood,” Steve says, Bucky’s hands falling from his own and he turns to take in the world around them. 

“Mine too,” Bucky says. It all seems familiar to Bucky in a strange way. He’s been here a million times before as Death, but it’s not like he’d taken the time to take in the scenery while he was doing his job. Now, looking around, he can see the ways how even with all the years in between, this new version of his neighborhood sprung up from the old one that still lives in his dusty memories. 

“Huh,” Steve says, his attention returning to Bucky, “Guess we grew up in the same place, just decades apart.”

“If you’d been born a little earlier maybe we could have met sooner,” Bucky says, and then, taking Steve’s hand in his own, “Come on, show me the sights before you have to go.” 

They don’t get nearly as long as Bucky would like before there’s a light. A bright glowing shimmering thing that Bucky knows he’s supposed to lead Steve into. 

Steve turns towards it, brave faced and Bucky can’t stop the “ _ Wait,”  _ that spills past his lips. 

“Maybe,” Bucky says, as Steve turns back to him, “Maybe you can stay. You can- you can  _ stay.  _ Nothing says there can only be one Death!” The idea slides into place suddenly. A new certainty. He’s right. He  _ has  _ to be right. “ _ Nothing says I have to be the only one.”  _

“Oh thank god,” Steve says, “You really waited til the 11th hour to come up with a big plan, huh?” 

“I had to let the tension rise,” Bucky says, feeling something like a laugh bubble up in him. He can’t believe he hadn't thought of this. 

He can’t believe he almost let Steve  _ go.  _

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” 

“Not a clue,” Bucky says, “You sure you want to do this? You’ll be stuck with me forever. Or at least until we’re ready to pass on and find some schmuck willing to take our place.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says, looking at Bucky fondly, but also like he’s a bit of an idiot. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re offering me forever, or close to it, with _you,_ the man I love, or actual, _literal_ death. It’s kind of an easy choice.” 

“Well, when you put it what way, I guess-” Steve cuts Bucky off by kissing him. 

“That light isn’t gonna wait around forever. Do whatever it is you gotta do.” 

“Fingers crossed this works,” Bucky says, tipping his forehead forward against Steve’s, and focusing. 

“Remind me that once this is over I need to find whoever’s in charge of everything and yell at them about how there’s no instruction manual for any of this shit. Like really? How can they just give you this sort of job- make you  _ the personification of Death- _ with no guide for everything you can do, it’s-” 

Bucky lets Steve’s annoyed rambling fade into a pleasant background noise, focusing on whatever it is that makes him  _ Death  _ and just sort of… shares it. 

The light disappears.

But even if it didn’t he’d  _ know. _ He can feel it when it works. A feeling he hadn't even realized he felt until the sudden absence of it is noticeable. The feeling of being utterly alone, the only one of his kind. 

Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. 

Maybe no person is meant to spend whole lifetimes alone. 

Or maybe he’s crazy and in love and riding high on the success of his last ditch plan and he knows nothing. 

Either way, it  _ worked  _ and Bucky isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“It  _ worked,”  _ Bucky says, no small amount of awe lacing his voice. 

“It worked,” Steve says, echoing Bucky, his face blooming into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Bucky want to kiss them. 

So he does. He presses a kiss to the corner of each eye, and then his cheeks, and then before he knows it, they’re standing there, trading kisses, soaking in the feeling- the  _ elation  _ that this isn’t  _ over.  _

👻👻👻

When Steve Rogers was 19 he met Death. He didn’t think much of it that first time. Chalked it up to a delusion, created by a lack of oxygen and a near death experience. 

And then he met Death again. And again.  _ And again.  _

Somewhere along the line he learned that Death had a name. That Death was kind, and charming, and had a smile that made Steve’s not-so-great skip a beat. 

Somewhere along the line he learned he was dying. 

Somewhere along the line, he died and he learned that death wasn’t the end of his story. 

  
He never finds whoever’s in charge of life, or the universe, or any of it. Maybe there  _ isn’t  _ an entity in charge whatsoever. Maybe they’re just all rattling around the universe, stumbling along, figuring things out as they go, and maybe that’s just fine with Steve so long as he’s doing it with Bucky. 

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES ON TAGS:  
> "Character Death, kind of" refers to the fact that Bucky, of course, dies before the start of the fic and is now Death, and Steve dies near the end. While they both remain dead in the end, they find a way around it, more or less. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic feel free to leave a kudos and/or comment and/or come find me on twitter @attackofthezee


End file.
